


Our Own Way of Dealing

by merthurpendragon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthurpendragon/pseuds/merthurpendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has their own escape. Perhaps you're mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Own Way of Dealing

Stiles didn't actually like whiskey. He didn't actually like cigarettes, either. But that night, at 3am, both seemed appropriate. It wasn't hard to filch a bottle of Jack from his dad's liquor cabinet; there were so many that one bottle, half full, wouldn't be missed. The cigarettes were another matter. He'd gotten lucky that the clerk at the gas station had given zero fucks and hadn't even bothered to look at his shitty fake ID. 

He drove for a while, feeling the warm summer air twist its way through his hair, around his face, twining and brushing against his neck. The radio was off, the only sound was the humming of the engine, the song of the wind. With no destination in mind, Stiles found himself at the old Hale house. Normally it would be creepy at this hour, abandoned, haunted by memories and death and fire, but Stiles had seen so much in the past few months that the silence was refreshing, the still darkness a relief from the fast paced, violent world he lived in.

Stiles kept the headlights on and sat on the hood of the Jeep, taking swigs from the bottle, drags off a cigarette. 

After they'd found Stiles' dad, Scott's mom, Chris Argent, things had mostly gone downhill. Scott spent too much time with Deucalion, plotting against Miss Blake. Allison was always with her dad, clinging to him, or with Isaac, whom Scott had stopped speaking to. As for Lydia... Well. Stiles hadn't heard from her since the kiss.

The parents weren't dealing with the aftermath much better than their kids. 

Chris Argent had come out of retirement. He was determined to bring down both Deucalion and Miss Blake. 

Scott's mom had taken on more hours and when she wasn't working, she was worrying about Scott, blowing up his phone with calls and texts, making sure that he was okay, reassuring him that she was okay. 

And the Sheriff? He'd taken up drinking again, hence the abundance of whiskey hidden beneath the sink, where he thought Stiles wouldn't notice. But of course Stiles noticed. Stiles noticed everything.

But when the bottle was almost empty, the pack of cigarettes half gone, Stiles was too hazy, too slow, to notice that he wasn't alone. It wasn't until the shadow stood before him that he realized someone was there. 

Stiles reached clumsily for the pocket knife he kept in his pocket, next to a small drawstring bag of wolfs bane. He flicked the blade open and tried to ready himself, but he swayed a little bit, too much, he was sliding off the hood--

Strong arms stopped his fall, quick reflexes snatched the pocket knife from Stiles' hand. 

"If you want to kill yourself," a deep timbre growled, "there are easier and less painful ways to do it." 

Stiles stumbled away from the dark shape, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. "Go away, Derek," Stiles mumbled, placing one hand on his Jeep for balance. 

The form leaned against the driver's side door, arms crossed over his chest. "I'm not going to let you stay out in the woods, at night, by yourself," Derek said. "And there's no way you're getting behind the wheel after helping yourself to that bottle of Jack."

"How'd you even find me?" Stiles asked. He surveyed the front of his car but deciding that trying to climb back up onto the hood would only end badly. So he sat -- more like dropped unceremoniously -- to the ground and leaned his back against the fender. Warm air still seeped from the engine. 

"You're not exactly a pro at covering your tracks," Derek said. He'd moved around the side of the Jeep and now the headlights illuminated his lower half. Stiles peered up at him but shadows still shrouded most of his face. 

Maybe it was the whiskey but as Stiles' eyes racked down Derek's body, pausing for a second at his crotch, a flush began to work its way up his neck. He looked away, focusing his blurry vision on his worn out sneakers. Derek eased himself -- far more gracefully than Stiles -- onto the ground beside the younger boy. 

He didn't say anything, as was Derek's MO. Stiles found the former alpha's stoicism to be less than awesome. It had only gotten worse after Derek had given up his alpha status to save Cora. It hadn't worked, either, and Cora had been rapidly declining for the last few weeks. 

Stiles' brain made a few connections, neurons firing slowly. "Why aren't you with Cora?" His eyes widened. "She's not -- that is, she isn't --"

"She's not dead," Derek said. He ran a hand through his hair. Not that it did anything; his hair was saturated with gel. It wouldn't move even if you ran him over. "Peter thought it'd be a good idea for me to get out." 

"Since when do you listen to the Fire Lord?" 

Derek sighed. "Since he's the only one who's there." 

Stiles looked over at the older boy, he focused all his energy, trying to do what he does best: notice. 

The lighting was bad, there were a lot of shadows, the harsh glare of the headlights playing tricks on Stiles' already muddled mind. But he saw that Derek was scruffier than normal, that he looked skinnier, too. Derek met his gaze and Stiles noticed some more. The brown eyes, blue in beta wolf form, lacked the spark of life that once made Derek so terrifying. They were just dull. And Stiles realized that he wasn't the only person who'd been abandoned. 

It was the whiskey's fault. Whiskey, the damn cigarettes, the hour. Those were all to blame. Stiles wasn't in his right mind, Derek was lonely. That was the only explanation for why Stiles leaned forward and kissed Derek and why Derek let him.

Derek's face was scratchy. It scraped against Stiles' soft face, rubbed against the palms of his calloused hands. Derek pulled Stiles toward him, maneuvering their bodies until Stiles sat between Derek’s legs, his own long limbs thrown precariously over the tops of Derek’s thighs, essentially straddling the former alpha. 

Derek’s body was warm, almost overly so. The heat climbed through their clothes and latched itself to Stiles’ skin. Derek moved his mouth to Stiles’ neck, sucking and biting. There would be bruises there tomorrow but the sensation of the prickly scruff and the hot, wet mouth, and the idea of being marked, sent thrills all through Stiles’ body. He leaned his head back, giving Derek easier access. But then Derek’s mouth was gone and then Stiles’ shirt was gone. 

The air cooled the feverish heat that surrounded the boys, drying the sweat on their skin. 

“This angle sucks,” Derek said, his voice even more of a growl than normal. Before Stiles could think of some witty reply, the ground disappeared from under his ass, and reappeared under his back. Derek was heavy but Stiles welcomed the weight. Rocks and twigs dug into his tender skin but Stiles barely noticed it. The only thing he was noticing right now was that the older boy’s body seemed to want Stiles as much as Stiles wanted him and that the brown eyes that met his gaze were no longer dull.

Derek trailed love bites down Stiles’ torso, going lower and lower until he paused at the waistband of Stiles’ jeans. Jeans that, if he were being completely honest, were growing more and more restricting at every passing second. 

Deft fingers undid the button but then Stiles placed a hand over Derek’s. “We need to even out the playing field first,” he said. Derek stared at Stiles’ body for a moment. The boy was so pale he almost glowed in the dark. His skin was dotted with moles, tiny imperfections that perfected the whole. “Derek?” Derek’s eyes met Stiles’ and then the werewolf tugged off his shirt and tossed it aside. Now it was Stiles’ turn to marvel at the wonder before him.

Anyone with eyes could tell that Derek packed some serious muscle. And even after the obvious turmoil, though Derek had thinned out over the past few weeks, he was still a sight to behold. Muscles rippled beneath his olive skin, stretching and constricting at each movement. His skin was bare, except for a line of dark hair that drew eyes from the belly button down. A treasure trail. 

An overwhelming wave of desire crashed over Stiles and he sat up a little, dug his fingers into Derek’s shoulders, and pulled him back down. Their mouths smashed together, lips, teeth, tongue, all pressed into a kiss that lacked any kind of technique. It was slobbery and messy and such a contrast from the first few kisses, which were slow, deep, thorough. These were urgent, desperate kisses. They were the kisses of two boys who’d never before experienced anything like this together and who didn’t know what to do with what they were feeling. It was middle school all over again, the awkward 7 minutes in heaven with a cute guy or gal, the unsure lips and tongue that seemed way too big for even two mouths. 

Stiles pressed his body against Derek’s, arching into him, their damp skin sticking together, sliding bumpily up and down as their bodies moved against one another. This time when Derek moved to discard Stiles’ jeans, he let him. 

If it was getting colder, neither boy felt it, despite the fact that the amount of clothes scattered around them was growing. 

Very soon the only thing that kept them apart was two thin layers of cotton. The boxers did nothing to hide, well, anything. Stiles allowed himself a minute to ogle at Derek, who didn’t just have a big body. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Derek said. Stiles nodded but he doubted that, of all the things that would probably come from his mouth, stop would be one of them. 

Stiles braced himself, muscles tensed as he waited for what he knew was about to happen. He could feel Derek’s teeth brush lightly across his stomach. Then fingers were slipping into his boxers, pulling them down, releasing him. For half a second, Stiles felt self-conscious. His body coiled into itself but then Derek was kissing his mouth softly, gently, reassuringly. 

“You’re beautiful,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ mouth. Derek smiled, nipped playfully, teasingly, at Stiles’ kiss-swollen lips before he returned to the task at hand. Before Stiles could gather himself, before his whiskey muddled, passion addled mind could prepare himself, Derek had taken Stiles in his mouth. A gasp escaped, turned into a moan, and bounced off the trees. 

Stiles had no idea how Derek knew what to do. He himself had never received a blowjob, let alone given one. Up until about thirty minutes ago, he hadn’t even known he was into guys. Maybe it was just Derek. Stiles released another moan and all thoughts vanished from his mind. 

“D-Derek—” Stiles felt himself fall over the edge. An orgasm rocked through his body. He panted loudly, sweat beaded against his forehead, flattening his hair as the gel lost its solidity. Derek looked as disheveled as Stiles presumed he did, with one difference. While Derek wore a look of lust, he didn’t look satisfied. Stiles looked him in the eyes. With one quick movement, that caught Derek off guard, Stiles had flipped Derek over so their roles were reversed. 

Derek’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t look displease. In fact, a smirk spread across his mouth. “Gonna join the big boys, huh?” Derek teased. 

But Stiles’ face was serious when he replied, “I want you to feel as good as you made me feel.” He leaned forward and kissed Derek slowly, hesitantly. It was an entirely different game when you were the one leading it. 

Stiles ground his hips against Derek’s as he kissed him. He kissed the large expanse of chest, sucking, leaving his own marks. Derek arched into Stiles’ touches. Stiles ran a hand down Derek’s side, sliding it into his boxers and gripping Derek firmly. Derek gasped and bucked his hips so they pushed harder against Stiles. 

This was something Stiles felt comfortable doing; he’d masturbated enough to know how to get the best pleasure. Derek’s moans were feral, more like growls of passion than anything, and with each stroke of Stiles’ hand, the moans grew louder. They echoed before getting lost in the forest. And as Derek came, he let out a deep growl, one that vibrated against Stiles’ core. 

Derek wrapped his strong arms around Stiles’ body, pulling him down so he rested on his chest. Both boys were spent. Their eyes closed involuntarily. Derek woke, however, when he heard sniggers less than an hour later. Stiles slept on, his body exhausted, knocked on whiskey. 

Isaac and Scott towered over them. Derek reached for the nearest thing he could grab – his shirt – and draped it over Stiles’ naked body. It was only after a moment of careful consideration that Derek remembered his growl. He’d basically pointed a neon arrow at them as far as werewolves were concerned. 

“Don’t say anything,” Derek warned, “or I’ll rip your throats out.”


End file.
